


One Rainy Sunday

by AuditoryCheesecake



Series: A Cheesecake's Tumblr Shorts [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Whole Lot Of Sentiment, Declarations of Sentiment, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Not-quite declarations of love, Think Of It As The Last Scene Of A Rom-Com, Very Very Light Jane Austen References, the morning after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: He never took anyone home before Bull, and it took them months to get to this point. Dorian's space, once shared, is changed forever.





	

He does his best to walk quietly. He keeps his breathing even and his hands steady by sheer force of will. He shuts the bedroom door behind him, makes it to the kitchen, and leans on the counter. _Maker._

He counts the ticking of the second hand on the clock, reaches thirty, counts ten of his own breaths, and back to the clock. He could make coffee, but he woke up wide awake for once. 

This, he thinks as he stares at two plates in the sink, two wine glasses on the counter, this is the point of no return.

He’d planned, he’d given himself pep talks, he’d cleaned his little apartment top to bottom, even the windows and the awkward space above the cabinets. He’d changed the sheets (twice) and straightened the picture frames and tried three times to tell himself that he was being perhaps (maybe, _possibly_ ) a bit unreasonable.

None of it made had him any less anxious when Bull showed up at his door in a suit and tie. He had brought a bottle of wine (not the one Dorian had hinted at, a better one) and a sheepish smile that did unforgivable things to Dorian’s stomach.

That hadn’t been _it_ , though.

And it hadn’t been the way Bull smiled at the picture of the two of them and the rest of Cadash’s team, or the charitable things Bull said about his cooking, either, or the way Bull had listened to him talk and just… _watched_ him with that _look._

It had almost been the way Bull put on a record and for once didn’t tease him for being such an unrepentant hipster. It had almost been the moment that Bull held out his hand and they danced slow and close in Dorian’s living room. 

It wasn’t even the moment when Bull finally ( _finally_ ) leaned down and kissed him, or any of the frankly spectacular moments that made up the rest of the evening. 

No. Maker help him, it’s now. 

He starts the coffee and sits in the chair by the window. The sky is overcast, the street and buildings are gray, it’s not really the sort of morning built for waking up and thinking _Maker’s breath, I’m in love._

He’d settle for one beam of sunlight. Perhaps a bit of cheerful birdsong. 

A car alarm goes off somewhere further down the block, and Dorian despairs of the weather, of the day, of himself, and goes to brush his teeth. 

He lingers, as he hears Bull get up. He brushes his hair, washes the last smudge of eyeliner from his face, and pulls at the collar of his shirt to examine the surprisingly small hickey at the top of his collarbone. It’s all quite satisfactory. 

Bull is in his kitchen when he goes back to it, and Dorian’s not entirely ready to deal with him and the feelings that he’s caused this morning, so he makes a show of being sleepy, goes straight for the coffee Bull’s already poured for him: a touch of milk, a touch or five of sugar. 

Bull smiles at him over the rim of his own mug, soft. Bull likes more milk in his coffee than Dorian does, no sugar at all. He’s got a sweet tooth for some things, he likes to say, but not coffee. Then he’ll wink and Dorian will try not to blush, because Bull doesn’t need any encouragement. 

“Sleep well, gorgeous?” Bull asks. 

Dorian studies his coffee. “Tolerably. I kept having dreams that my bed had come alive and was trying to crush me to death.” 

“You think you’re funny.” Without the eyepatch, Bull’s face is slightly more expressive, or maybe Dorian’s just become more familiar. Either way, he knows that _Bull_ thinks he’s funny. 

“I think that it’s going to rain today.” He says, because he should wait, shouldn't he? Wait forty minutes between eating and casting energy spells, wait at least an hour between realizing you’re in love and actually telling the grinning, beautiful man in your kitchen. 

Irrevocably, like that movie Bull made him watch, with the flowers and the period costumes. Irrevocably, utterly, madly in love. It had been Dorian’s idea to watch another like it, and it hadn’t been entirely so that he could stay curled up next to (on top of) Bull. 

Perhaps this morning, with the hazy light from the window, Bull inching closer to him, the coffee mug warm in his hands, is not the point of no return. Maybe it came and went without him noticing. 

Bull is leaning over him now, waiting for Dorian’s full attention. It’s either a joke or a kiss. Dorian lifts one eyebrow, tilts his chin up. 

It’s a kiss. The soft curve of Bull’s smile against his own, Bull’s fingers on the side of his throat (he must be able to feel Dorian’s pulse start to race). Bull’s mouth tastes more like coffee than like anything else, and it’s not a deep kiss. It’s a “good morning” kiss, a “I’m glad I finally stayed over” kiss, a– 

“What’s going on in that brain of yours, Vint?” 

He should at least finish his coffee before he says it. 

“There’s a cafe with a gorgeous view of the Frostbacks nearby,” is what he says instead. “But their best seating is outdoors.” 

Bull glances out the window. “It’s definitely gonna rain soon, you’re right.” 

A hand on Bull’s upper arm brings his eye straight back to Dorian. “My eggs Benedict are no where near as good as theirs, but there is a decent view in my bedroom.” He puts on his best come-hither smirk. 

Bull laughs, their faces still quite close together. “More than decent,” he says. “And it’s not like I’d be looking at the mountains even if we did go.” 

“Flatterer.” Maker, what did he ever do to deserve this man, to get close enough to know the scars on his face from the laugh lines, to have that smile turned on him and him alone? 

He stands up, pressing their chests together, coffee abandoned on the counter. Bull slides an arm low around his waist, but rather than kiss Dorian again, he curls his face into Dorian’s neck. He mouths at the small bruise already there. When Dorian’s gasping a little and pulling at his shoulders, he releases him. 

“Just want to finish my coffee,” he says with an utterly shit-eating grin. 

Dorian tries to scowl. “You _tease_ ,” he accuses. “Maker’s breath, what have I gotten myself into?” 

“Dunno.” Bull sips his coffee loudly on purpose, Dorian’s sure. “But you’re stuck with me now.” 

Dorian’s not meant to catch Bull’s brief moment of tension, but he does all the same. “I suppose I am,” he sighs dramatically. “Whatever shall I do?” 

Bull chuckles, slightly strained, trying to hide it. When did Dorian get so good at reading his moods? 

He moves closer to Bull, leans against his side where he’s leaning against the counter. They watch the rain beginning to fall. Very light, maybe just misting. 

“I hope you know,” he says quietly into the space in front of them, “I’m quite happy to be stuck with you.” 

Bull makes a noise. Could be laughter, could be more noncommittal. 

“What’s brought this on?” Dorian asks cautiously. Bull’s been doing well lately, but it’s not like the flashbacks need a written invitation. 

“It’s not that,” Bull says a little gruffly, because he can recognize Dorian’s imperfect attempts at gentleness a mile away. “Just different seeing you in your home, I guess.” 

“Good different?” 

“Yeah,” Bull says quickly. More slowly, more quietly, he says, “really good.” 

“That’s good,” Dorian is not at his most articulate this morning. “I rather like seeing you in my home as well.” 

Dorian’s mug looks small in Bull’s hand, only one finger through the handle. His other hand rests on the counter behind Dorian, the suggestion of an arm around his shoulder. 

“And I’d certainly not object to you being here more often.” 

Bull smiles down at him, at last. “I think I can make that work.” 

The rain is still light, but Dorian can hear it tapping at the glass, an uneven rhythm. He finishes his coffee, and winds his fingers into Bull’s free hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi[ on Tumblr](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)!


End file.
